Rita didn't wake, her eyes simply opened, and the sun assaulted her pupils. To say she awoke would be misleading; a more accurate description would be that she was forcefully thrust into today by the ailments of her body.
Her throat felt charred from smoke, a dryness unsoothed by saliva. A splitting—no, a wringing of her brain, like a dishrag twisted too tight. Her eyes were pruned, as if left out in the sun to dry. Her lips, cracked like clay soil praying for rain, curved into a bittersweet smile. And beneath it all, a fog of dissonance as she struggled to recall the events of last night.
Slowly, she made her way out of the bed to the living room. The fridge: an ugly, murky green thing, the exact shade of marsh algae, stood waiting for her. It was smothered in alphabet magnets arranged to spell ALPRAESHRMOS… whatever that was supposed to mean.
She opened it. A cool breath of air washed over her as she reached for the jug glaring back at her, glowing temptingly under the fluorescent light. She drank straight from it, letting the flat, chilled water coat her throat. She gulped too quickly, and it spilled onto her pyjamas, blooming into a large water stain. But as the water travelled down and slowly revived her, fragments of the night before began to drift back into place.
Last night.
Tucked away in a corner where the sun had long abandoned, where the tar-black roads had been robbed of their opaqueness and turned a murky grey, like a potter's hands touched by water. Hidden—no, denied visibility to those who could see. Or rather, visible, yet ignored by those who refused to look. Almost like a cipher written in a language one already understands; the key in plain sight, the message decoded, and yet somehow still a mystery.
Yet, the irony hadn't washed off her. She wondered if Gwen had intended to take her there. Was it a coincidence? If not, what did she want her to see? How the people danced carelessly? The rebellion that had settled on the walls and formed posters? Or perhaps, she was a fan of the club soda. Knowing Gwen, it was probably the latter.
Ring, ring, her phone yelled, violently on the coffee table, slicing through the frantic loud of her thoughts. She groaned, reached for it blindly, and pressed it to her ear.
"Hello, who's this?" she croaked, voice sandpapered.
"Don't act like you don't have my number saved," Gwen snapped, her tone buzzed with excitement uncharacteristic of a sales representative.
Rita threw herself to the nearby chair. Loudly sighing, "You change numbers like days. It's hard to keep up."
"I've changed my number once--this year, " Gwen shot back. "I've had the same number of numbers as you've had boyfriends."
Rita let out an exasperated laugh, folding her legs in recoil. "First of all, I'm not that promiscuous. And you're not that organised."
"Alright holy one!" Gwen declared theatrically. "Thou shall be a bore," she paused for a second, long enough for her joke to set in. "Anyway... Aaliyah and I are going to get drinks...and you're coming. "
"No, I'm not," Rita mocked in a dry, snappy tone. "And when did you even exchange contact details"
"While you were in your drug-fuelled psychosis. Fucking crackhead!"
"Psychosis? Crackhead?"
"Yeah," Gwen said amused, ready to embellish the details of last night, "you were spacing out, spazzing out. Argh—arghh...taxes--or something like that. That was you, last night." Rita couldn't see her, but she knew, knew--Gwen was reenacting the noises with her hands held out like a zombie.
"I did not do that," Rita insisted, taking another swig from the jug. It spilled again, dribbling down her pyjamas. "Why would I be argh-arghhing or talking about taxes?"
"I don't know? Why were you doing that? Honestly, I was so embarrassed."
"Yeah," Rita muttered, "that totally happened."
Gwen ignored her. "Okay, how'd you get back last night?"
"In a car…obviously!"
"What colour was the car?"
Rita blinked. "What kind of question is that?"
"Just answer it," Gwen demanded.
"Okay... yellow?" Rita answered uncertainly.
"Nope…it was black," Gwen's voice curled smugly, "See! Too high to remember anything"
"Okay, dude. Sure."
"Anyway--" Gwen continued, "you coming?"
"To what?"
"Drinks with me and Aaliyah"
"No."
"Aghhh.... booo!"
Rita pulled the phone away slightly. "I'm hanging up."
"Pick you up at 8!"
"No!"
"Bye! Love you!" Gwen sang, and hung up before Rita could respond.
Rita stared at her phone, exhausted. "Jesus Christ," she whispered into the empty room, before descending into a repressed smile.
The doorbell shrieked through the apartment. Ring, ring.
Rita groaned. She dragged herself towards the door, each step lathargic met with protest from her aching body. When she pulled it open, Gwen stood there, grinning, sunglasses on despite the black sky, dancing in place to the sound of Rita's misery.
"Ready" Gwen asked.
"No" Rita said flatly.
"Good!" Gwen cheered, hooking an arm around Rita and yanking her out the doorway, still in her pinstriped work suit, before she could offer any resistance.
Walking down the hallway, Rita kept glancing back at her apartment door as it clicked shut. She tried, desperately, to mime at Gwen that it was unlocked, that her salary could barely handle being robbed, but Gwen only tightened her arm around hers and started humming loud enough to drown out every complaint.
"You know you can't just show up, kidnap me, and hold me hostage because we're friends," Rita protested, wriggling against Gwen's iron grip. "I have feelings too, you know?"
Gwen stopped dead. The humming cut mid-note. She unhooked herself, pivoted sharply, and planted both hands on Rita's shoulders with a grin that could only be described as villainous.
"Man… fuck your feelings, son!" she yelled, echoing through the apartment corridor so loudly a door down the hall trembled. "This is the pros!"
She squeezed Rita's cheeks between her hands, shaking her head like a disappointed coach.
"You think the opponent's gonna go easy on you because you've got feelings? Hell no! That's not how the game is played, son." She leaned in, eyebrows raised, daring Rita to answer. Rita barely parted her lips before Gwen added on: "And if you keep talking that soft stuff, you're gonna end up on the bench."
"I like the bench," Rita mumbled through squashed cheeks.
"How unfortunate," Gwen declared, releasing her, "because I just wasted a top pick on you, and my starter's injured. So you're playing. Go warm up."
Rita straightened like a scolded rookie. "Yes, ma'am."